Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  This caught Cora off guard. Her insult slipped out. And she had been doing so well, keeping her cover.

  “When did you start reading?”

  “What do you mean? Everybody knows about it.”

  “I didn’t,” said Tykeso. “What is the Water Mirror?”

  “Crystalline lake at the top of the mountain,” explained Romney. “Usually calm. Looks like a mirror. It’s where Andrea found the goddess and brought back the water for her tribe.”

  The two guards behind Victoria looked to each other, each with a puzzled look on his face. Apparently, it wasn’t common knowledge.

  “It’s not a well-known fact,” said Cora, recovering from her mental stumble, “but I’m impressed. It looks like you’ve been reading up on Dr. Costa’s work. Good job.”

  Romney didn’t hear the first compliment he had ever received from Cora. He was focused on Victoria. He saw her crack when he mentioned the Water Mirror. She was now standing closer to the opposite wall but still keeping her fearless leader posture. He tried to remember more details of the dream.

  “But even back then, there were people that didn’t like the idea of a strong, independent prophet strutting around and making little geysers.”

  A flash of surprise, and then Victoria was back to glaring. Romney continued grasping at the threads. What did they call Andarametra back then? Del-something.

  “Then, there’s Delarena. Of the sand, if I’m not mistaken. That’s the place where Andrea took them. The very first city in Andara.”

  Victoria’s eyes remained steely. Romney hid the grin forming on his face. The names and faces were falling into place, like dominoes along a line.

  “Then there’re the successions. Andrea, for starters, then Elvira, Tora, Tyra, Vera, Lucia, then Esmerelda. And then Reyna and Reysa, the twin pharaohs. But that one reign had an ugly start.”

  “Okay, Romney, that’s enough. What in the hells are you even talking about?”

  Cora turned to apologize to Victoria, but the glorious leader was ashen. Her eyes were fixed on Romney. The successions had never made it into any of Victoria’s books, nor in any book, for reasons she wouldn’t explain in public. And even in private, she would only say that she had her reasons.

  “How did you know those names?”

  “You gotta trust me on this one. I know because I have something very important I have to do, and it involves that temple.”

  Victoria’s demeanor remained the same. The color had returned to her face, and now her eyes were aglow with a new fire. She grabbed Romney by his shirt and held him in place.

  “How did you know those names?”

  Romney shrugged at this. How could he put this, without looking like a complete lunatic?

  “You could say I learned from the source.”

  “Everyone out of the room. Now,” said Victoria.

  No one moved. Romney looked to Cora, who was too busy palming her face to meet his gaze. Tykeso looked just as bewildered as the two guards who had taken positions away from Victoria, but he didn’t have the luxury of cowering. No one had ever seen this side of her before.

  Victoria snapped back into command, pointing to the two soldiers who were drifting into the corner.

  “Untie the elf and get him to the kitchen. Take Cora into the living room and keep her there until I come out. Do not let anyone else in this room.”

  Her voice took on venom.

  “And you will forget the names you heard here today. Am I clear, Jaime? Teresa? ¿Me entiendes?”

  Romney was the only person who seemed to notice the two new soldiers in the room. One carried a large, black carrying case and stood at attention. Victoria was still drilling holes through Romney’s face with her eyes, until the second newcomer tapped her lightly on the shoulder. And then he patted her. She broke from Romney to stare down the soldier, her hand still clenched around Romney’s collar.

  “What is it?”

  “Something from the wreckage,” said the soldier. “A black case.”

  “Unopened, per your orders,” said the other, like a dutiful statue. “Delivered directly to the commanding officer.”

  “Can this wait?”

  “No, señora,” said duty incarnate. “It’s heavy. Possibly ordinance.”

  Victoria let Romney go and hovered over the case as the soldier released the various latches along the rim. Romney and Cora joined her, though Romney was situated along the periphery so she couldn’t reach him.

  The final latch popped and the case opened like a clamshell. Inside was something far more expensive than a pearl. Each piece had its own little place outlined in protective foam. There was a long tube, a large scope, a dark-green carbon-fiber middle part, which Tykeso would later explain was the stock—a bipod, a round tube—a suppressor, and four magazines loaded with bullets the size of spear points. Victoria looked up from the case. Cora was just as flabbergasted as Romney.

  “Sniper rifle,” said the dutiful soldier. “Semiautomatic, with a high zoom scope and suppressor. Probably an M99.”

  “Care to explain how you got this one?”

  Cora looked to Tykeso. He shrugged in his bonds.

  “It’s a PSN-3,” said Tykeso, “but that one isn’t mine.”

  Enchanter and Wyvern

  The following is a transcript of a conversation intercepted by the Ontaran Intelligence Bureau. It was recently declassified and made available for public use. The researchers were told it pertains to Romney’s story, but the OIB didn’t give us much more than that.

  It starts with the first party, codenamed Wyvern.

  “WYVERN DOWN.”

  The second party responds five minutes later.

  “Where are you?”

  The next message is time stamped within ten seconds of the reply.

  “BRAVO. LOST PACKAGE. ADVISE.”

  “Can you please turn off your caps lock?”

  “LOST PACKAGE. LINDA GONE. NEED EQUIP.”

  The next response takes five minutes.

  “You need to find the package and deliver it.”

  “CONFIRMED. NEED EQUIP.”

  “Who where when?”

  “ROSIE AND LOLA,” and then a series of coordinates pointing to somewhere in southeastern Andar. “ASAP.”

  The response comes within milliseconds.

  “NOT ROSIE,” and then, “turn off your caps lock.”

  The next message is a long series of grumpy emoticons punctuated by a fire.

  “lola and gwen. coordinates provided. wyvern in holding pattern.”

  “Order received. Enchanter out.”

  Romney Balvance and the High Priestess

  Romney and Victoria were alone in the wine cellar. No guard was posted at the door, for fear that someone may overhear a stray detail or a name. Victoria had cooled after the initial outburst and was now sitting in a chair as Romney paced the room and gave the details of his dream. He was right on every account. The climbing in sandals, the crystalline lake at the top, the tribe dividing and moving to the sands of Andara, the many successors, and even the dueling twins.

  And he knew he was right, because each detail seemed to hit Victoria in the pit of her stomach. He was detailing the banishment of the magical jewelry when she finally reeled.

  “Enough. Please. These are things you shouldn’t know. Only a chosen few can learn those details.”

  “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

  “But there is no way for you to learn these things unless someone told you.”

  “Look, I’ve had a difficult week too. It involves a lot unbelievable stuff. And, honestly, this conversation is low on the weird scale.”

  Romney sagged. He was hungry and tired, his socks soggy, and to top it all off he was being branded a lunatic. Again. Victoria sighed.

  “I’m sorry. But you must understand this. All records of the original line were destroyed with the pharaoh’s throne. Only a select few know the names of the first pharaohs. Of course people are taught ab
out Andrea and what she did for our people. But there are certain details left out. And for good reason.”

  “You’re talking about magic, aren’t you?” said Romney.

  “I know what must be kept secret,” said Victoria. “Whether it is truth or not is of little importance. These secrets must be protected.”

  Victoria shifted in her seat. She watched Romney carefully before returning her gaze to the floor in front of her. Her shoulders relaxed as she spoke.

  “I was a skeptic too. They took me to the Water Mirror as a welcoming party. I tried to play the indifferent observer. But when we crossed the lake and entered those halls, I knew there was something different about Hirna Andrea. There is always reverence when you stand before antiquity, but this was something else.”

  “A dull sizzle,” said Romney. “A faint shifting under your feet.”

  “They told me it was the magic in the chambers beyond. I never saw it for myself, but they said it was there. Pulsing with raw power. I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t.”

  “You believe now, don’t you?”

  “When I stepped into the Bowl of Remembrance, I heard their voices. Over time, they appeared one by one. Each was in a linen robe. It was as if they had always been there, standing and watching. And, somehow, I knew they would always be there. They were guarding the magic within.”

  Victoria shifted again. She leaned forward, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet. Her voice had become a whisper.

  “They taught me the troubles of magic. And from speaking to them, I learned their names.”

  Romney watched as Victoria visited the memory. Her eyes drifted to the halls of Hirna Andrea, where she likely sat and read from a dusty tome while countless ancestors dispensed their advice in her ears. He took the moment to sit in the only empty chair, then hissed at the ache in his backside.

  “I have to find Videra,” said Romney. “And I know that means dealing with maigc. But it’s okay. I know how to handle it too.”

  “Andrea knew we would try to seek it out,” said Victoria. “So she locked up the magic and taught the ways to her granddaughters. And these women, the high priestesses, are the keepers of the Lucana treasures. Their history, their teachings, and their burden. Only we know the ways of magic. We are not allowed to touch it. We are only protectors.”

  She was a master historian, a doctor of Andaran history, and an imminent scholar in her field. But none of these things were reasons why she was invited to Hirna Andrea.

  Her grandmother, Alma Anoria Villanueva, was the true reason Victoria was allowed to step onto hallowed ground. Victoria’s abuela was nearing her eighty-seventh birthday at the time. Alma’s birth name is on the books as Reynosa. In fact, one could look it up right now, if one were so inclined. You could also see that she was an accomplished tailor who retired at sixty-one with a reasonable fortune and six grandchildren to spoil with baked goods and the occasional sweater. But you would never learn her true given name. There is only one place in the world that holds the true record. And it’s invitation only, enforced by the Andaran military.

  Victoria learned her true history by standing in a bowl-shaped impression in the stone floor. She heard every detail of la historia Andrea, and committed it to memory. She learned the lineage of the Lucana bloodline, and her role in it, and the many things that were done with magic by her ancestors. And through her ancestors, Victoria learned the troubles of magic. And when Alma’s fellow keepers were satisfied, Victoria was honored with a fresh linen robe and sandals. Victoria Costa was made a high priestess of Andrea and a keeper.

  “And I remember,” said Victoria, “the air was still, but I could hear the roar of cheering voices. I know what I heard and felt that day.”

  “You can take us to the mountain, then.”

  Victoria’s aversion was clear when she looked at Romney. It didn’t bother him either.

  “Cora was right about you,” she said.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure. You can take us there, right?”

  “Like a weasel in nice clothes.”

  This last part isn’t entirely true. The bucket of water had made Romney’s clothes look downright lived in. Coupled with the Andaran morning soaking in through the windows, his uniform had lost any trace of niceness. And he was hungry.

  Victoria decided it was time to break for lunch, but only after she made it absolutely clear they would not discuss the matter in anyone else’s company. Romney promised never to utter a word of it to anyone, and then made the promise in stilted Andaran. Victoria admired his attempt.

  ◆◆◆

  The dutiful reader may have asked this question at some point in the chapter: if it’s so secret, then why am I reading about it in a historical text/biography/nonfiction-fantasy? The answer involves certain events that occur after Romney’s adventures in Andar, in which an extensive report of these details was handed to a historical order for preservation. And at that point, the proverbial cat was out of the bag, all claws and yowling.

  Which is similar to how the writers acted when the historians requested they simply name the event in question and move on. There were debates about the importance of maintaining dramatic effect and the need to establish a solid arc.

  Screamed. They screamed at length. Honestly, one would ask where we find these people. In the Humanities Department, but that hardly leaves room for anyone here to talk. Romney knew the secret.

  But is it really possible that Romney learned these clandestine records from a dream? We leave that up to the reader. The writers, editors, researchers, scholars, and historians are sitting out of that one. Mainly because we’re still arguing over whether we believe it.

  ◆◆◆

  Lunch was tortilla soup. Romney had to quickly ladle it into his bowl, because the Partisans of the People were already lining up for seconds. After some inquiry, Romney learned that Tykeso had been sleeping since he left the wine cellar and would likely sleep through lunchtime too. Dr. Ramos assured him that everything was okay. He apologized for the bucket of water, then returned to console the third case of teddy bear cactus that week. When Romney asked about Cora, a soldier mugged and led him into the living room.

  A small crowd had gathered around the TV where two “Titan Kings” were locked in eternal combat. He found Cora Queldin at the center of the crowd, sitting on the couch with a game controller in her hands. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, her thumbs and fingers running across the controller like a musician to an instrument.

  In the few short hours she had been playing, Cora had become the second greatest “Titan King” to ever grace the Partisan stronghold, save for one. The best was sitting on the couch beside her, controller white-knuckled in his hands. Romney knew enough about video games to know who was winning.

  “She’s pretty good,” he said. “I thought she just read history books all day.”

  “Not in her undergraduate days. Have you seen her play guitar?”

  Romney gave a sideways look to Victoria. Historians didn’t play guitar. Video games seemed plausible. But he couldn’t see her with a guitar. Even in a free-form jazz setting.

  “Can she?”

  Victoria’s grin was ear to ear.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Cora looked out of sorts. It was that look she used to get in sophomore year after a binge of Titan Kings but before she had to complete her homework for the weekend, like she was shifting back into the right gear. She looked at the electric guitar with a remoteness, as if she were still trying to manage combos and divine wrath meters.

  “Why do you have this?”

  She looked to Victoria, then to Romney as if to blame him for something. Victoria played innocent.

  “I wanted to learn to play, but then the revolution picked up. You know how it goes.”

  Victoria grinned at Romney. It was the kind of grin that said this is going to be good.

  But nothing happened. Cora examined the guitar for a moment before Victor
ia cleared her throat.

  “Play something.”

  Victoria motioned her to the stool. It looked stiff and crooked, but as Cora sat down, she looked at home. She took the pick folded into the strings and strummed. The sound was muted.

  “Not bad at all,” she said, as she adjusted the machine heads. “Where’s the amp?”

  Victoria appeared with an input jack. Romney followed the line to a small stereo, with several more knobs than most speakers. Victoria flipped the switch on the amplifier, then adjusted the knobs to her liking. Cora strummed once more. The amp gave an electric howl. Even Romney was impressed. But Victoria was still grinning at him.

  “Just go crazy,” she said. “Play something from the old days. Do you remember anything from Milady Mayhem?”

  Cora nodded.

  “I think so.”

  And without pause, she started to play. The sound that came out was music.

  The genre was death metal. To be more specific, it was a subgenre known as opera-core. The band Milady Mayhem was an opera-core band established in 2007 ME, a month before Lanvale Prime’s “23rd Annual Battle of the Bands.” They devastated the competition and took home the first prize, along with the promise of more local gigs. Their magnum opus, “Queen of Lands Beyond,” was a smash hit among the Lanvalean indie-death metal subgenere scene, and it garnered attention from beyond the city of lights.

  But in the summer of 2009, Milady Mayhem had reached a crossroads. They could forever lurk in the theaters and bars of Lanvale or they could accept a record deal from the up-and-coming metal goliath Sarnovo Dreadsounds, Inc. The decision to accept ultimately cost them their lead guitarist, who wanted to pursue a career in academia instead. That guitarist, stage name of Lady Ingrid, is better known in this story as Cora Queldin. And she could still play.

  Romney watched in rapt silence as an accomplished historian shredded through the solo of “Kingdoms for Burning.” She brought the piece to a raucous close and then nodded at the instrument with approval. And not a bead of sweat on her forehead.